


we are nowhere (and it's now)

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa's bright smiles and clear laughter tug at something deep inside Sam's chest, and he stares at her longer and more openly than he should, often thinks of her at night in a way that shames him in the bare light of morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are nowhere (and it's now)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honey_wheeler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/gifts).



> Contains vague spoilers for _A Dance With Dragons_.

"Protect her," Jon tells him, his hair snapping into the wind like the sails of a ship, his horse snorting and stamping in the piling snows. He has changed since Sam left him at the Wall, since the red woman brought him back from the cold, sparked life back into his icy heart; his voice is tired and piercing at once, his mouth a grim line, and he narrows his grey eyes as Sam shivers with the wind.

"Jon," Sam says quietly, then, "Lord Stark," because Jon has finally and reluctantly agreed to be both, because Arya and Bran and Rickon are still missing, because Sansa is thrice betrothed and twice widowed and unwilling to marry again. "I'm not--"

"You're a knight now," Jon says, and Sam looks away. It's another thing that is different, nearly as strange as Jon returning from death as a hero out of prophecy; King Stannis dubbed Sam himself, as Sam knelt before a roaring fire in the muddy shadows of the practice yard, and he is still unsure what he did to earn the title, save become friends with Jon his first weeks in the Night's Watch. "You have a duty. If you kept Gilly safe beyond the Wall, you can keep Sansa safe here at Winterfell."

Sam nods and takes his place at Sansa's side, and he does his best not to jump as Stannis strides across the yard, shouting orders in a voice harsh enough to crack stone. The king mounts his horse and pulls reign beside Jon, leaning close to whisper something that makes Jon frown, and Sam holds himself straight, rests his hand on the sword still unfamiliar at his hip as Jon favors him with a parting glance. They make for a terrifying pair, the fiery stag and the burned and frozen wolf; Stannis is taller than Jon, broad across the shoulders despite the gaunt mien of his face, and Jon has flourished in his shadow, grown into the man Jeor Mormont must have glimpsed beneath the angry, sullen recruit who nearly refused a place with the stewards.

"Winterfell is yours, Ser Tarly, until we return," Stannis says, his jaw a sharp line in the weak morning light, and Sam flushes and bows in reply, the proper words hidden in the back of his throat. The very idea is ridiculous, as his battle knowledge comes from the chance death of a wight and what he read while working as Maester Aemon's assistant, but the garrison knows its business, through desire if not discipline. They are mountain men, tough and determined fighters who love Jon fiercely for the memory of his father, the liege they still toast at meals, call The Ned with sorrow and regret.

Jon and Stannis lead their host through the Kingsroad gate, planning to push north and defeat the dark force behind the rise of the Others, then march south and press Stannis' claim for the Iron Throne. Sansa cries as the last riders crest the hill, tears staining the soft curves of her cheeks and her hands twisting into the folds of her skirts; her dress is cut from fine wool almost as dark as soot, and it drains the color from her face, makes her as drawn and pale as the girl Sam and Pyp and Grenn rescued from the Eyrie. The snow has turned heavier while they waited and watched, thick flurries that catch in Sansa's hair and linger at her feet, and Sam wraps his cloak around her shoulders, guides her into the keep with gentle words and soft smiles.

"I fear he won't survive it," she admits later, over a meager supper of boiled greens and soup as thin and tasteless as water. Her hands looks small where they shake on the trestle table, her fingers curled around a napkin so tightly her knuckles flare white, and Sam reaches for her without thought, blushing as he covers them with one of his own.

"He will be well," Sam says, and he believes it to be true. "Jon is one of the finest swordsmen I've seen. He has Ghost with him, and the king is -- the king, um." He pokes his soup with his spoon, unsure of how to continue. Stannis is a force all his own, a maelstrom blown in from the choppiest parts of the sea, and Sam thinks he could take the throne through will and determination alone, but Sansa does not love him as Jon does, finds him gruff and cold, resents him for dragging Jon into yet another war for land and titles and power. "They will both be well."

Sansa accepts this with a nod and a tremulous smile, too polite and well-bred to dissemble, but Sam sees uncertainty in the set of her shoulders and the crease of her brow, in the way she lets her hair curtain her face as she reaches for the flagon of wine. That night she sits up far later than she should, staring out the window and into the fire by turns as the moon creeps toward its apex and Sam yawns and blinks at his post, and rouses herself too early in the morning, is washed and dressed and walking through the halls while Sam is still burrowed in his bed, cursing the greyish sunlight and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Winterfell is more than half a ruin, its wasted towers like broken teeth against the heavy, colorless sky, but there is room enough for Sam and Sansa and the men of the garrison, for the ragged handful of people who survived the sacking and burning of winter town. They're a truly disparate lot, a mix of smallfolk and mountain clansmen, of wildling women and former black brothers and hungry refugees from Karstark and Bolton lands, and Sansa moves amongst them with courtesy and ease, soothing the sick and scared alike, giving food and wood and blankets to any who ask, finding oddly-shaped sticks and stones for the children to use as toys. Sam is constantly astounded by the depth of her gentle grace and compassion, and how freely she offers it despite all the cruelty she has suffered; it reminds him of a little of Jon, though Jon guards his kindness as closely as his honor, only spares it for Sam and Sansa and Stannis, for the crows who broke their vows to follow him when he lost his command at the Wall.

"He would not renounce his gods," she says one afternoon, during a strangely clear and windless hour in the godswood, her unbound hair flashing like copper. The heart tree here is as ancient and reaching as the largest of the nine beyond the Wall, its face slightly less bloodied and fearsome, and Sam closes his eyes, briefly bows his head. The old gods could be harsh and unforgiving masters, but they've shown Sam more favor than the Seven ever did at Horn Hill. "He said being Azor Ahai did not change who he was inside."

Sam remembers little of the argument between Jon and Melisandre, save for the clipped anger in Stannis' voice when he finally intervened, sending them off to their own chambers like a father with naughty children. "I think perhaps, um -- perhaps these gods and the red god are not as different as Lady Melisandre believes." Sam knows he should be grateful to her for granting Jon a new life, but her magic and beauty make him anxious in a way he cannot place, and he was glad when she rode north with Stannis' host. "R'hllor is new to these lands, but the, um -- the wights are as old as the children of the forest."

"I've been told you killed a wight," she says, taking a seat on the thick humus at the root of the heart tree. There is mirth in her eyes, but it's an honest, gentle humor, unlike the crude mocking of the sworn brothers who named him Sam the Slayer in their cups, and she smiles brightly as he blushes and stammers through a wandering explanation -- the sheer luck of it, and the cold shock that followed, how it only grew and spread in the days after, compounded by the mutiny and the Old Bear's death and the birth of Gilly's babe.

She narrows her eyes slightly, her smile growing wider, turning wry at the corners. "Gilly. She's the mother of your bastards."

"One, yes. The youngest," he admits, his face flushing hotter as he thinks of the little girl he fathered on the ship to Oldtown, who he hasn't met and Gilly likely hasn't yet named. He pauses for a moment, looking away; he is tongue-tied and flustered around Sansa on his best days, but he feels hopeless now, unwilling to give her the whole truth of Craster's queer ways and Melisandre's thirst for the blood of a king. "She had a wilding man, but -- it was just easier, to tell my father that both were mine." He'd hoped to send for Gilly once the wars were over and he settled in as Jon's steward, but she has a new life at Horn Hill now, and a crofter husband who treats her kindly, from what Sam has learned from Talla's infrequent letters. "I would've married her myself, but I was still in the Watch, and we, um -- I had vows."

"So did Jon, and he took a wildling wife beyond the Wall." She glances up as the wind returns with a soft whistle, brushing a fallen weirwood leaf from her lap. "Did you know her? He rarely speaks of her."

"No, but he once told me she had freckles across her nose, and her hair -- it was curly, and even a brighter red than yours," he says, digging his heel into the humus. "I think, um -- her death still hurts him. I believe he blames himself."

She considers this for a moment, then straightens her skirts and gets to her feet. "He will need to marry, if he means to be Lord of Winterfell. I've seen the wildling princess watching him. I think she'd be willing, if he'd just bend his neck and speak with her."

"He might be afraid to," Sam says, ducking his head as Sansa laughs, the sound as high and bright as bells. "It's true, my lady. Val is -- she nearly killed a man at the Wall, with nothing more than a meat knife."

Fresh clouds gather over the Frozen Shore, slowly scuddering south with each new press of the wind, threatening a storm that will blanket Winterfell in white before the week is finished. Sansa frets at the lack of wood and water and provisions, complaining under her breath as she pokes through every pantry and larder, frowning at the empty corners of the storerooms and the bare patches in the crumbling glass gardens. She never seems to tire, would work from morning to night if Sam didn't remind her to take her meals, and he sputters and huffs as he follows her from once place to the next, as he trudges across the yard and heaves himself up the stairs. He has lost nearly three stone in the last two years, between the rigors of the Wall and the discipline of Oldtown and the weeks he spent traveling to Winterfell on foot, after the trading ship he boarded dumped him off at Flint's Finger, the captain afraid to mire himself in the battle between Stannis and the Boltons and the Ironborn, but he is still large and soft around the middle, probably always will be.

A raven arrives from the Wall just as the sky darkens and breaks under the weight of the snow, flapping into the abandoned Maester's Turret less than an hour ahead of a restless, shrieking wind. It's a curt letter written in the king's spidery hand, and it says little save that he and Jon are still alive, that he is sending Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen to Winterfell because of short rations and ill tempers within the Night's Watch. If Sansa is bothered by this new imposition she does not show it on her face; she watches placidly as two of Big Bucket's men move her things into a smaller, colder chamber across the hall, as three winter town women sweep and dust and polish the first, the one closer to the source of the hot springs, which Sam believes had once belonged to her mother.

He is surprised when, a few days later, he finds her sewing in her solar rather than weighing pork barrels or counting potatoes, shaping soft lengths of red and green wool into a finely-stitched doublet his size. She looks beautiful, her cheeks pink with the heat from the blazing hearth, her hair pulled over her shoulder like a rich, red waterfall; her fingers are deft and quick as they push the needle through the fabric, and Sam watches her for far longer than is proper, blushing when she glances up at catches him at it, stuttering when he asks her why.

"I thought you might like a new one," she says simply, tilting her head to the side. "The one you're wearing is worn under the arms, and your black one fits too tightly across the shoulders." She pauses, toying with the fabric until it spills over her lap, hiding her bent knees like a shroud. "You never told me why you chose this sigil -- my brother's wolf with your family's colors."

"My father disowned me, but I'm still a Tarly. And your brother -- he, um." Sam frowns down at his boots, unable to explain how desperately he values Jon's friendship. The naked truth is that Jon is the first real and honest friend Sam ever made, is still perhaps the only one Sam has, as well as he gets on with Satin and Pyp and Grenn. "My father, he sent me to the Wall to die. He thought -- hoped, maybe -- that the cold air and poor food would kill me the first year. And it might've, but your brother -- Jon protected me there, and now he's found a place for me here. I'm a knight with a position in his household, and he -- he's given me the honor of protecting you."

"Is that the only reason you abide me? Because Jon would have me guarded night and day?"

"No," Sam admits quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, close to sweating from the heat burning across his cheeks and jaw. Sansa's bright smiles and clear laughter tug at something deep inside Sam's chest, and he stares at her longer and more openly than he should, often thinks of her at night in a way that shames him in the bare light of morning. She has made it plain she doesn't wish to marry again, and Sam cannot blame her for it, after all the trouble and violence she has seen at the hands of men, but if she did she would still have no use for a husband like Sam, who is thick-tongued and waddling, would rather sing or read than practice with his sword.

He does practice, for two hours each day before supper, because if he's to be Sansa's sworn sword then he should learn to use his beyond not stabbing himself in the foot. He works in the open when the weather is fair, and in one of the covered yards when the wind and snow drive everyone into the keep, swinging first at an archery target so pocked with holes it spits stuffing with every thrust, then sparring with one of the men from Clan Flint, a greybeard both shorter and fatter than Sam, but light on his feet for all his extra bulk and as strong as aurochs in spite of his age. He is exacting and relentless, laughing as he blocks Sam's sword with a heavy wooden staff, but he is also patient where Sam's father and Allister Thorne had been hasty and cruel. 

"Up, lad. Get your arm up," he says one damp afternoon, when Sam is aching and winded at once, reaching in to tap his staff against the curve of Sam's ribs. "Higher. You're too big a target to leave yourself so open."

Sam throws his sword to the ground in disgust, as close to tears as he has been since he first made his way to Winterfell, but the man comes up behind him, claps his shoulder with a gnarled hand.

"There's no shame in it, lad. I've carried this weight my whole life, however much or little I ate, and like as not you will as well. If you can't change it, learn to use it. Your enemies will think you slow, so the trick is to be quick. More strength in the legs is what you need, not less padding 'round the middle." A gust of wind whips through their alcove, rattling the walls and rustling the thatch. "I know The Jon gave you the care of his only living kin."

"I -- yes."

"I bet he had a reason for it, and not just that you shared furs when you were freezing your cocks off at the Wall." He snorts and claps Sam's shoulder again. "Come, then. Pick up that southron knife and show me you're what she deserves."

Sansa comes down to watch him the next day, and every day after that, standing at the rail with her hands tucked into the fur of her sleeves, her hair hidden underneath her hood and her cloak dancing into the wind. She cheers on the rare occasions he manages to disarm the old Flint, loud enough that Sam's face burns pink to the tips of his ears, and she swears he is improving with such an open, honest smile that Sam can only agree. He'll never have Jon's deadly grace or Stannis' ruthless, veteran instincts, but his arm feels stronger and faster than it was before, and he can spar longer without losing his legs or growing short of breath.

"Your doublet is finished," she says, the same week Selyse and Shireen are due to arrive, her voice bright in the dreary chill of her solar, smiling at him over their lunch of salted pork and bland, overcooked pease. She points to it where it hangs over the back of her sewing chair, a splendid red direwolf on green with carefully-stitched scrollwork at the hem and cuffs, and Sam blushes into his wine, too flattered and flustered to thank her with proper words. "Will you put it on? I wish to see how it looks."

It fits him perfectly, from the width of the shoulders to the length of the sleeves, is even cut longer in the back so that his belly won't pull it up too short. He clears his throat once he has it laced, mumbling, "my lady," under his breath, and Sansa makes a soft, pleased noise when she looks up from her plate.

"Do you like it?" she asks, setting her napkin aside as she rises from the table.

"Yes, my lady," he replies, coughing as he forces his dry, thick tongue to work. "It is a handsome gift."

Sansa fusses at him for a few moments, tugging the sleeves and pinching the seams, straightening the line of the collar and the set of the laces. She smiles once she's satisfied, her mouth curved and her eyes bright, and Sam leans in impulsively, pressing a soft kiss to the apple of her cheek.

"Oh."

"Sorry," Sam says, afraid to meet her eyes. "I didn't, um -- sorry."

She studies him for a moment, then lays her hand on his arm. "Why would you be sorry?"

"I know you -- you told Jon you've no wish to marry again."

"I told Jon I've no wish to be used again." She curls her fingers in Sam's sleeve, tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. "When you first brought me here from the Eyrie, the Reach was losing its war against Daenerys. Stannis thought if Highgarden fell that the Tyrells would come north. A marriage would've been made, either Jon to Margaery or me to Willas, and I didn't want that again, not so soon after Harry."

Sam knows little of her marriage to Ser Hardyng, save that it lasted less than a full turn of the moon, that Harry died by Petyr Baelish's hand shortly before Petyr died by Sansa's. She spoke of it just once, and only to say she acted in defense of herself and little Robert Arryn; with no evidence to the contrary Stannis let the matter drop, and Sansa has not mentioned it since.

"Did you love him?"

"I scarcely knew him," Sansa says, her mouth twisting with a frown. "We met at our wedding feast. I might've loved him had he lived, but he didn't," she adds, then leans in and kisses him.

She holds his hand in the godswood after that, kisses him under the heavy, drooping canopy of the heart tree, her mouth warm and soft and her fingers resting against his jaw, her hair brushing his cheeks as it flutters with the wind. He wants to touch it, find out if it's as silky as it looks, but he leaves his hands at her waist, keeping her at a careful distance, afraid he will shame himself if she presses too close, that she will feel his cock against her hip and know how badly he desires her.

He dreams of her at night, waking spent and sticky and shamefaced, his embarrassment a living thing until she smiles and wraps her arms around his neck, happy in a way that makes his chest tighten and ache.

"Sansa," he says breathlessly, after another tasteless supper and too much wine to wash it down, his face hot and his mouth swollen, his hand half inside her bodice as she sighs and settles in his lap. Her fingers are curled into his hair, her head tipped back against his shoulder so he can kiss the line of her throat; if Jon could see them now he would skewer Sam like a boar, and that thought is almost enough to cut through the soft slide of her skin and the sweet weight of her against his chest. "We can't, we can't."

She hums into the skin below his ear, nips him softly with her teeth. "Why not?"

_Because you're Jon's sister. Because you're more beautiful than a sunrise. Because you would've been queen of the Seven Kingdoms had Joffrey not been both a bastard and a monster. Because you deserve more than I can give you, with no money and no land of my own._

"We just can't."

"I want to," Sansa says, her voice almost sharp around the edges, her fingers nudging under Sam's chin until he's forced to meet her eyes. They are wide and bluer than a clear, summer sky in the south. "I've not had a choice before. King Robert wanted this, and Cersei Lannister wanted that, and then Petyr tried to use me to seize the Vale and the North, and I never had a choice."

"I have nothing to offer you," Sam says honestly. "I -- I have no money and no home."

"You have Winterfell. Jon made you his steward because it pleased him to keep you close."

"And if Jon dies?" Sam asks, unable to breath properly, a knot burning in his throat at the very thought.

Sansa smiles and brushes her thumb across his lip. "Jon has Ghost with him, and Stannis. He will be well," she says, kissing him again.

Her mouth is warm and sweet and perfect, and Sam knows he will not deny her anything in the world.


End file.
